He wasn't hot. Or, not in the
strictest sense of the word, she amended. No, good looks definitely
weren't a factor…he wasn't even passably cute, except when he
did that one surprised-disappointed face. His facial features were
too strong, his hair too coarse, his body was built along the lines
of a bird, and his grin showed crooked teeth.

His personality
was…random, at best. There were times when he could be incredibly
abrasive and rude, without thought for anyone else, and she hated
those times. He was funny, true, but it was not self-deprecating
humour: it was the kind that mad you feel bad about laughing at
someone else. He was also lewd; his writing was stark evidence for
that.

She found his
conversation annoying. She found his obsessions tiresome. She lost
track of how many times he had made her lose her temper.

She didn't love him.
She didn't even like him. Why, then, was she so attracted to him?

She told him all this,
lying under the tree, watching the fireworks. They abruptly stopped,
the clink of the lighter telling her that he was diverting his
attention from the fire to her question.

He turned to look at
her and held out his palm, flame dancing in the middle. After staring
for a moment, she reached out with one finger to touch it, mesmerized, but
recoiled sharply as he made a fist, smothering the fire.

"Done and done," he
said, then grinned lopsidedly as she walked away.

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